Thursday, September 27, 2012

Scene: Blood

He woke with a groan, his memory of the
night before hazy. He moved to sit up and his eyes snapped open. He
attempted to raise his head to look and discover what was holding him
down as panic bloomed in his breast like some kind of exotic flower.
Metal bands over his wrists and upper arms, near the shoulder, held
his upper body immobile. A similar band went about his hips, and then
two more secured each leg. A single band went about his brow and
forced him to stare up at the ceiling.

The metal table beneath him was cold,
as was the room. He looked from side to side and saw only the sterile
white walls and ceiling. The sound of footsteps on the tile floor
clicked loudly in his ears. A tall, graceful woman with her hair
bound up into an intricate knot wearing a white set of scrubs
approached him. Her face was implacable and he suddenly wondered if
he was in a hospital. The incongruity of the scrubs and the high
heels he heard clicking on the floor took a long moment to connect.

A small wheeled cart was brought up on
his left side, he could hear one of the wheels squeaking as it
turned. “Hey,” he said, “What happened? Where am I?” Her flat
expression moved to his face. Something in the utter lack of emotion
told a primal part of his brain that he was in danger. “What's
going on?” he said, unable to keep the fear from creeping into his
voice. A small hand settled on his wrist as she turned her gaze to
her watch. The fog in his mind suddenly became much more ominous as
she turned away from him.

There was a small click and an
electronic whirr of a tape recorder. The woman spoke quietly into it.
“Subject 43 is conscious. He appears to have no ill effects from
the sedative. No visible defect is apparent from confinement
procedure.” she said emotionlessly, as though she were reading a
grocery list. She clicked the tape recorder off and set it back on
the tray. She turned her attention to the man restrained on the table
before her. After a moment, she picked up a pen light and shined it
into his eyes. “Open your mouth,” she said, wielding a tongue
depressor.

Obedient to the 'nurse', he complied.
She looked into his mouth and took the popsicle stick out. She put it
aside and shuffled some items around. “What's going on? Did
something happen?” he said anxiously. She looked over at him. After
a moment, she gave a small, tired seeming sigh. He did a mental
checklist, discovering that he didn't feel injured. He flexed his
fingers and toes, finding them to be entirely under his command. She
wheeled the cart away from him and walked out of the room, leaving
her nude 'patient' in the middle of the room. He wracked his brain
trying to determine how he landed himself in this position.

After what felt to be an eternity, she
came back into the room. A small paper mask was over her face as she
took up an item he couldn't identify at first. As she turned it in
her hand, his eyes widened in horror. The scalpel glittered cold in
the flourescent light. She brought it down and rested it flat on his
chest. “Oh god,” he gasped, “I...” she looked at him, that
cold, flat look in her eyes. She dragged the unsharpened side of the
blade along his ribs. He let out a shriek of terror, certain that she
was going to carve him to pieces. At his cry, she gave a low,
sinister chuckle.

The cold steel wandered over his flesh,
occasionally pressing harder and making him cry out in fear. She
lifted it away and turned it around in her hand. Slowly, she lowered
it down to his left cheek. Lightly, the sharpened edge whispered over
his skin. Gradually, she applied pressure as his eyes rolled and he
pissed himself in fear. A thin, stinging line was scored along his
cheekbone before she lifted the scalpel away. She leaned back away
from him, turning to the side with her menacing blade. She set it
down upon the wheeled cart.

“I'll do what ever you want,” he
gasped, “I...” She turned and walked out of the room. He screamed
after her, “No! Don't leave me! Don't leave me here!” He writhed,
attempting to free himself from his bonds. He only succeeded in
exhausting himself. “Goddamn it!” he shouted, his voice nearly
deafening in the small room, “Let me go!” As he gave up the fight
against his metal bonds, she returned to the room still wearing her
paper mask. She pushed the cart over to against the wall.

She picked up a hose from off the floor
and began to hose him down, washing away the urine with ice cold
water. He thrashed against his bonds, listening to the liquid drip
down to the floor and then run down the drain positioned beneath the
table. She put the hose aside and walked out of the room again. She
returned with a bottle of isopropal alcohol and a handful of gauze.
She set her supplies down on the cart across the room and looked over
at him with a calculating expression. She picked up a q-tip and
walked over.

Rolling it gently over his wound, she
took a sample of his blood. She dropped this into a test tube when
she returned to the cart. After a few minutes of rustling, he heard
the click and whirr of the tape recorder. “Subject 43's blood type
is O negative,” she said in her eerie, dispassionate tone, “There
is reasonable speculation that the RNA type will be compatible.
Additional testing is required.” She turned off the tape recorder
before picking up a syringe. She approached him again and put a cold
hand on his forearm. Ignoring his entreaties and pleas, she took a
larger sample of his blood.

She took her syringe full of blood back
to the cart and shuffled some things around. She then walked out of
the room, leaving him alone again. Minutes ticked by and time seemed
to lose meaning. He wept softly despite himself, worried that he was
going to be murdered by the silent woman. As he was on the verge of
giving up all hope, the door into the room opened again. There was a
soft shuffling, as though someone was stumbling in slippers.

A masked woman in a hospital gown
looked nervously towards the door. “Do what she wants,” she
whispered, “Then she won't hurt you.” The masked woman looked
around the room, her body speaking fear. “I'll come back again.
Don't tell her,” she whispered. The masked woman shuffled out of
the room as quickly as she could. Time ticked by and then the 'nurse'
returned. She wheeled an IV stand into the room and with ruthless
efficiency, she hooked him up to it. As the slow drip fed fluids into
him, his heart began to hammer with panic.

The 'nurse' made a few notes on a
clipboard which she rehung at his feet. She turned to the cart and
picked up vial. As she put a syringe tip into it, his mouth went dry
with fear. She filled it with a clear liquid. As she flicked the
syringe and pushed the bubbles out of the needle, he began to thrash
again. “Let me go,” he howled, “Let me go!” She walked over
to the IV, ignoring his protestations, and put the fluid into his
veins. Warmth spread from where it flowed. With the warmth came a
deep relaxation of his muscles. His thoughts became confused and
disjointed as the syringe's contents took full effect.

Suddenly, he felt comfortable and a tad
tired. The fact that he was laying down seemed to make things all
that much easier. And the quiet, ominous woman at his side, while
disturbing, was no longer a source of utter terror. “You need
rest,” she said primly, “You have a big day ahead of you
tomorrow.” She turned and took a blanket off of the lower portion
of the cart and covered him with it in all the seeming tenderness of
a mother's care for her child. She adjusted the bags of fluid hanging
off the IV stand and brought a bed pan.

She unlocked the restraints holding his
legs and hips down, lifting them with relative ease. She slipped the
bedpan under him and left him to the drugs. As his body voided into
the pan, he blinked owlishly, feeling his strength run out of him
like water through a sieve. A part of him insisted that the situation
had gone from bad to worse but he couldn't think of the reason why
for the life of him.

When he woke, he was restrained again.
The IV bag had been changed. He was hooked up to a catheter and a
colostomy bag. A mask was strapped over his nose and mouth with a
hose that snaked down over his chest. The quiet woman was back,
writing notes on her clipboard. Groggy from the drugs, he looked
around himself. He found no change to the room and groaned. She hung
the clipboard from the foot of the table and turned back to the cart.
She manipulated something and he could feel cool air blowing against
his face from the mask.

He held his breath, determined to
resist what ever she was doing. She walked around him, watching how
his body tensed with his struggle. She looked him over and made a
tsking sound. She walked back to the cart. She picked up something
that looked unfamiliar and ominous. The tiny vise was cold on his
fingers as she slipped it on to one of his hands. He opened and
closed his fingers, attempting to resist in some small way. She took
hold one of his fingers and wrenched it back.

He screamed in pain. That cold, distant
look in her eye gave way to something hungry, but he had missed it.
She gradually closed the vise over the first knuckle of his right
index finger as he breathed hard, trying not to scream again. His
left hand flexed and he pulled against his restraints as the crushing
pressure reached excruciating degrees. She stopped as he made pained
noises. She walked around the foot of the table and to the cart.

She picked up another set of
thumbscrews and walked to his left side. “Oh god no,” he moaned,
“No, please don't. No!” Her cold, cold hands applied the
thumbscrews to his left hand, grinding down the horrible pressure
against his fingers. Screaming hoarsely, he flailed against his
bonds. As he did so, she watched him. The colostomy bag and the
catheter did their jobs as terror went to work on his bladder and
bowels.

The cold kiss of the scalpel's edge
pressed against his throat. He went dead silent, eyes rolling in
terror. She ran it down his throbbing vein and over his chest. With a
lover's caress, she traced the lines of his body with the razor sharp
blade, careful not to break the skin. While he couldn't see it, she
was breathing faster and hunger made her gaze wild. She scored a
long, shallow cut over his pectoral muscles.

As the blood welled up, she could feel
her heart hammering in her chest. It took all of her will not to rub
her face in that ruby, salty sweet fluid. Her hand shook slightly as
she struggled with the temptation to cut him again. She turned away,
her harsh groan lost in the sobbing of her victim. Her control
slipped as she turned back to face him. With a single, feather light
touch, she dipped her fingers into the oozing blood. It burned hotly
against her cold fingertips.

She turned away, determined not to let
her victim see the look on her face. He was too busy crying in pain
and fear, convinced that she was going to kill him. She put her
bloody fingertips to her lips. Closing her eyes, she took a deep
breath in, savoring the scent even as her tongue flicked out and
gathered the few drops. With a small growl of frustration, she wiped
her fingers on the white apron she wore and walked out of the room,
her heels clicking a staccato beat.

He was blinded by pain, unable to tell
how long had passed when the woman in the mask stole into the room.
She looked him over for a moment. She then took the thumbscrews off
of his fingers. At the sudden release of the relentless pressure, he
wept. Feather light kisses landed on his bruising hands. “Oh, I'm
so sorry,” she sighed, “I'm so, so sorry.” Her pity filled
voice moved him to greater sobs. She lay light kisses over his face
as she cast her arms about him.

The light in the room dimmed. She
looked up suddenly, her eyes widening in what could be presumed to be
fear. As she fled from the room, he wailed, “Don't leave me. Don't
go.” She fled from the room, taking the thumbscrews with her. The
door stood open wide and a cold breeze blew in. Outside of it, he
could only hear the sound of feet on the floor until the slam of
another door down some phantom hallway. Then came the sound of
another door opening followed by the click of high heels. The slow
pace stopped at the entrance into his room and his heart hammered.

She walked in, closing the door behind
her. The white paper mask was replaced with another, this one with
mint green elastic. Her apron was pristine white, not showing even a
trace of his blood from her fingertips on it. One slender hand
reached towards his face and he stared at her, paling. The thought of
possibly biting her hand flew through his mind and then he realized
he couldn't see her other hand. A wild vision of her slashing his
throat open after biting the hand that was near his face made his
blood run cold. He bit his lips and gave a silent prayer that this
strange monster would just go away.

With a light touch, she looked his face
over, carefully checking the bones of his cheeks and then moving
along either side of his jaw. The temptation to bare his teeth was so
strong that he wasn't sure if he did for a moment. As her free hand
came up, he closed his eyes. She dragged her nails against the column
of his throat. Beneath her mask, she licked her lips in a small,
nervous gesture. She could feel his pulse throbbing, fluttering like
a trapped bird beneath her fingertips. In the back of her mind, a
small, quiet voice said she could just drug him again, rip all the
equipment out, bundle him in clothes, and drop him in a bad part of
town. It said that she could go back and let all of this be like some
kind of awful dream.

The look in his eyes as he stared up at
her fanned the hunger inside her. She struggled to maintain
detachment as she continued to run her hands over him. When her
fingertips came to the line of clotted blood where she had cut him,
her control wavered and she dug them into the minor wound. He bared
his teeth in a hiss of pain. She stared down at him, seemingly
entranced by how his whole body vibrated with sudden tension. She
pressed her nails down hard into the scratch, drawing blood again.

She slowly lifted her hand away,
looking at it as though it belonged to someone else. With that same
mute fascination, she turned and picked up the scalpel. He said in an
angry voice, “Just kill me. That's what you're going to do isn't?”
She looked over at him as though seeing him for the first time. While
he couldn't see the beautiful smile that curved her lips, he could
see hellfire that lit her eyes. She stepped up close to him.

She leaned down, her body heat warm
against his nude side. Beneath the rustling paper mask, she again
licked her lips as she brought her face close to his throat. She took
in a deep breath, enjoying the musky scent of his body and the acrid
tang of fear in his sweat. She stood there, her eyes closed and
breathing. “C'mon,” he yelled at her, his tone wild with panic,
“Just do it!” She moved her face until it was near his left ear.

Her voice was rich and sensual, just a
touch breathy with excitement, as she said, “You are in no position
to tell me what to do.” He thrashed against his restraints and gave
a wordless scream. She looked him over, giving a soft growl as she
set the scalpel down flat on his chest. At the cold, cold touch of
steel, he froze. “I'm not going to kill you,” she whispered,
“Though you may wish I had later.” She stood up and turned. As
she walked out of the room, he realized that she left the scalpel
laying on his chest. He struggled to think of some way to possibly
manipulate his bonds or anything about the situation to free himself.
When he realized that he was too securely fixed, he screamed. An
angry, hoarse sound, it echoed in the room and nearly deafened him.
He heard the sound of some sort of broken weeping, realizing in some
abstract way that it was himself.

The room was plunged into darkness and
he silently begged what ever gods that would hear him that all of
this was a hellish nightmare. Trembling, he dropped into fitful
sleep. When he woke the room was unchanged. As he dropped deeper into
sleep, the lights gradually came on. She returned with a syringe and
injected the sedative into his IV.

Hours later, he woke to his chest,
arms, and legs feeling like they were on fire. He lifted his head,
discovering that he was free from what ever strange place he had
been. Shallow cuts crisscrossed his body. He ached all over and felt
his gorge rising. He rolled onto his side and dry heaved before
pulling the thin blanket over himself. Sitting in the corner was the
masked woman with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. He looked
at her in her thin hospital gown. He saw faded cuts healing on her
arms and legs.

He slowly sat up on the cot, rubbing
his aching brow. As he looked about the room, he realized that there
was no window. He slipped out from beneath the blanket and moved to
try the door, feeling unsteady on his feet. “It's locked,” the
woman said in a voice that sounded vaguely familiar. He looked over
at her, despair in his eyes. She stepped up to him and put one of his
arms over her shoulders. With greater strength then he had expected
in her small frame, she helped him back to the cot. He pulled the
blanket over his lap and sat with his head hanging down.

The masked woman's hands moved over his
shoulders in a comforting gesture. At her kindness, he gave a sudden
sob. “Oh no,” she gasped, “No, no, no, no.” Her hands shook
when he took them suddenly in his own. He brought them to his lips.
The sight of the 'nurse's' eyes burning with unholy lust rolled over
his mind. He shuddered and turned away. The masked woman wrapped her
arms around him, gently but firmly guiding his head to be pillowed
against her breast.

He wrapped his arms around her waist,
breathing in the scent of her and striving to forget the cold,
antiseptic sterility of the chamber he had been held in earlier. The
sudden rush of the fact that he was alive having seen what he was
sure was his own death staring him in the face rolled over him like a
wave of heat. He buried his face in the hollow of her neck, ignoring
the musky sweetness of the leather mask and breathed in the heat of
her skin. She moved against him, somehow knowing what he ached for.

In a smooth motion, she settled herself
in his lap, taking his erection deep inside her. He leaned back
against the cot, letting her take hold of his wrists and press them
down firmly against his chest. With wild abandon, she rode him giving
loud moans and groans that just heightened his arousal. When his
orgasm finally came he shuddered from head to toe, surprised by the
force of it. He collapsed back against the cot, dropping down into
deep, dreamless sleep, exhausted by the horrors he had experienced
and the desperate fucking that happened.

She stood and picked up the blanket
that had fallen to the floor. She dropped it over him with a smile.
As she turned and walked out of the room, she reached up and
unbuckled the mask. She let the door swing shut and locked it before
taking the mask off. She brought her fingers to her lips. Fresh blood
from his pleasantly aggravated cuts clung to the heel of her hand and
on the backs of her fingers. With a catlike expression, she licked
the blood. She decided that she would bleed him again later, but
first she wanted to rest.

About Me

I am happily married to my best friend. We have two wonderful little boys that are helping me to lose my mind. I'm an avid reader of books and poetry. I adore medieval and renaissance music. And I have more fiber art projects then I can count going on at a given time. It's to keep me from killing people. ;)